


Love Is Not A Victory March

by Myrime



Series: your name like a prayer [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Kissing, Negotiations, Post-Trespasser, Romance, War, doing what's right not what's easy, the Inquisition is losing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:39:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8477377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: "I want you to be safe."Lavellan's hand, still hovering in mid-air, falls listlessly back to her side. How naive she was to believe the gaze and kisses of the Trickster God himself."No," she corrects him without inflection. "You want me to give up."





	

**Author's Note:**

> This can be seen as a sort-of-sequel to "I Would Hold You Now", although reading that is not required to understand this (there was little actual plot there, if you get what I mean).

Their battlefields are less bloody than what feels appropriate. They both have their armies, yes, their followers and allies: Solas’ ever growing horde of elves and mages tired of the suppression forced upon them; Lavellan’s dwindling band of their world’s steadfast defenders. They could cause massive bloodshed facing off against each other, elf against man, sword against staff.

But their battles are of a more intricate kind: strategically placed daggers in carelessly unguarded backs by servants turned traitors. Stories of a glorious future re-enacting a long-forgotten past spreading like fire and sowing doubt. Shadows invading dreams and destroying minds with barely a flick of a wrist.

It does not leave the Inquisition much room to act, only to _re_ act, hurrying through Thedas on the tail of disaster to try and do damage control. It is running them ragged while the enemy stays put, hidden beneath shiny facades of normalcy.

The funny thing is, Lavellan still cannot bring herself to call them enemies. Call _him_ an enemy. She does not want to acknowledge this as a war when she has yet to give up on finding a peaceful solution. Something to make Solas see that this world does not have to be destroyed for him to make up for his – mistake.

No progress is made on this front, however, and it has caused bitter arguments between Lavellan and her advisors, her trusted friends. They say her judgement is impaired, that she is still too close. If she is honest with herself, how could she not? And, worse still, how can she not be at least a bit proud of some of the things _he_ has achieved? Not the treasons or murders. But he is giving her people hope and new strength to fight back against millennia of oppression. No matter his ultimate goals, this is something good.

They are in Tevinter – where else than the very place Arlathan had succumbed? – Lavellan and a handful of comrades. Cullen, who is always concerned for her safety, and Cassandra, worrying about her state of mind. Blackwall, whose loyalty is steadier than ever. And the Iron Bull, naturally, who would never pass up a legitimate reason to see Dorian – who had gladly welcomed his friends in his homeland, even on the brink of exhaustion as he is. Which is mostly due to the fact that the position of power he had slowly working towards to for the past years has suddenly become vacant. Too soon, in his mind.

The Archon is dead, throwing Tevinter into almost as much disarray as the disappearance of hundreds of elven slaves did. It is a move that was to be expected but that is not what has Lavellan in such distress. Along with the assassination came a message, an invitation to ‘negotiations’ written in some stranger’s hand. But they are Solas’ words, Lavellan knows that with more clarity than she holds for most other things these days.

Such like his possible reasons. As it is now, the Dread Wolf is winning. Lavellan knows people say it is her fault because she cannot seem to find it in herself to actually fight back. More often than not, she fears they are right.

He still looks the same. Despite the all-but-humble armour and the wolf pelt that is as mocking as it is a threat. Despite the glowing of his eyes and the aura of raw power surrounding him. Despite how tall he holds himself now. It is plain to see that _Solas_ is still there, underneath the looming layers of Fen’Harel. Somehow that makes it worse, facing him while knowing that it was not all a lie.

“Vhenan,” he greets for all to hear and it is all Lavellan can do not to crumble. It sounds exactly as it does in her dreams.

The elves who have come with him show no outward reaction to this – do they know? Is this part of some elaborate scheme? On her side, however, she feels more than sees Cullen step closer to her, one hand hovering over the pommel of his sword. Cassandra fixes her with a worried glance before glaring at the man she had once let into Haven because he had claimed he wanted to help.

“What do you want?” the Seeker snaps, a comforting warmth at Lavellan’s left side. Oh, how she wishes they were all gone.

“A word,” Solas answers softly, contradicting all his deeds with just the gentle expression on his face. His eyes do not stray from Lavellan even once. He is still better, though, at concealing his thoughts. “In private, if you would.”

His companions move immediately. They bow their heads before they leave, offering neither comment nor resistance. Lavellan’s friends, on the other hand, do not budge.

“Not bloody likely,” Blackwall growls but still looks to her for orders. She is glad, suddenly, that she sent Bull and Dorian off to reconnect after months of being apart. They would never let her order them out. The loyalty of Cullen, Cassandra and Blackwall is of another kind. They are not any less protective of her, but they also follow commands.

“Please,” Lavellan says quietly. “Leave us alone.”

She cannot let them see how terrified she is. All of them know she is damaged, have seen her being made and broken. But she owes them this. Owes them to keep her cracks from showing and her falling apart to quiet nights alone in her chambers. Even if they constantly tell her otherwise.

Cullen hovers the longest. He has always been the one the least willing to accept not being able to help. But he, too, backs out of the room, eyes fixed on Lavellan as if trying to make her change her mind. She does not. And then they are alone.

It feels strange, being in such close quarters with Solas after years of separation. Of being adversaries in this war for the world.

And, true enough, standing here mere feet from him in the dead Archon’s palace, it has never felt more like a war. Inspecting army camps and reading casualty lists, burning corpses an attending meeting after meeting at their ever-moving war table, all that does not compare to this. Seeing him outside of her dreams feels surreal now.

“Vhenan,” he says again, sounding much more breathless this time. As if his confidence has bled right out of him.

There is a blur of limbs as he hurriedly crosses the distance between them. Reaching out he stops a mere inch of touching her, waiting for something. Permission, maybe. Or an easy way out.

“Don’t call me that,” Lavellan hisses but her heart is not in it. And she knows she is lost even before she leans into his touch.

His hand cupping the side of her face is warm, just as she has expected. There had always been this fire inside him. Even on their long trek through the snow after the destruction of Haven had he never been cold. Back then she had believed him to be her beacon of hope. Now she knows him for what it really is: the wrath of a god burning in agony over his own mistakes.

“What else should I call you?” Solas cocks his head to a side, his eyes resting gently on her bare face. “It’s what you are.”

 _Am I?_ , she wants to ask, but every breath of his, every beating of his heart relays the answer to her. She does not think she is ready to hear it.

Her mind strays to how their last in-person meeting had ended. To how many nights she had pursued him in his own realm, without hope of ever actually catching him. Maybe, though, she had been wrong about that. She had certainly caught _something_.

No matter whether her dreams have been true, this is real. And he is looking at her and touching her like he used to. Before. If there is a little regret mixed in she can forgive it over the fact that there is more raw longing there than he had ever allowed himself to show back when he was only Solas.

Leaning forward, he buries his nose in her hair and inhales deeply. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers. The sensation of his warm breath caressing her skin is almost enough to make her knees go weak.

But the words themselves cause another reaction altogether, raising her fury like only he can, this man that she does not know whether to hate or love. Or rather, whom she fears she can never stop loving enough to hate him as she should for what he did. For what he is still doing.

“You wouldn’t have had to miss me, if you had just stayed,” she snarls, pushing him away even while she keeps clinging to him. “ _You_ insisted on starting a war when we had just finished one. And for what?” Her fist collides with his chest and when he makes no move to stop her she repeats the motion. “For the memory of a world you destroyed yourself.”

Solas flinches but he does not speak, does not defend himself. In a way, that makes her even angrier. It has never been her intention to hurt him, but, being like this, he makes it so very easy.

“You did not even try to find value in _my_ world, _my_ people. You just –” A sob tears itself from her throat and she goes limp in his hold. Her voice, when she continues speaking, has died down to a dejected whisper. “You really never cared, did you?”

Lavellan stares at him until her eyes begin to burn and her vision blurs. She refuses, however, to cry in front of him and bites her lower lip in hopes that the pain will help her focus. His gaze follows the movement and a frown appears on his forehead.

“I care for you,” he offers simply, almost apologetic. As if caring for another person is somehow a worse crime than planning to wipe out said person’s whole existence.

Lavellan does not have time to ponder this, however, because before she knows what is happening, Solas’ lips are on hers, as gentle as they are demanding. She succumbs to them without a second thought – something she will surely curse herself for later on. But he tastes the same he did years ago when he had not had the shadow of the six-eyed wolf looming over him. Not visible for her, at least.

The movement of his lips and tongue and teeth are more enticing than everything the dozens of copies inside the Fade had managed to achieve. It feels like freedom, like letting her magic go without restraints. It is both the most wonderful and damning feeling she can imagine.

And all too soon, it is over. Solas breaks away from her when their lungs start screaming for oxygen. He does not draw back but lays his forehead against hers, eyes closed and one hand curled up in her hair. Still, it feels like they have never been farther apart.

“You left,” she says. Somehow it sounds more like a question than an accusation. Despite him having explained his ‘reasons’ before, during their last goodbye.

“I was never really far.” It remains unclear what he means. That he kept tabs on her the whole time? That he could have stepped through an Eluvian at any given moment had he wished to do so? That her dreams might have been something more than wishful thinking? Lavellan is too afraid of what answer she might get to inquire further.

“Why call for this meeting?” she asks instead. “Why now?”

Solas sighs and finally disentangles himself from her. When he turns to walk towards one of the window, his back does not seem as straight anymore as before.

“The Archon is dead. This is a big step for –” he cuts himself off abruptly. Maybe he wanted to say _for us_ , realizing almost too late that there is no _us_ anymore. Not since he had broken what they have had. “Tevinter was crumbling before that. It will go all the faster now.”

Lavellan does not know where she finds the energy for it, but she flashes him a wry smile. “You might be underestimating Dorian. He won’t give up that easily.”

Solas inclines his head in assent before shrugging dismissively. “He might slow the fall. But it is, in effect, inevitable.”

There is nothing gentle about Solas – Fen’Harel – now. The man is buried deep beneath the wolf. Lavellan notices that at the same time that she realizes she cannot muster the strength to be the Inquisitor. Not here. Not with him.

“Why are you telling me this?” The words tumble tiredly out of her mouth. Something tugs at her insides, trying to pull her closer to him again. It does not make sense, but she has felt safer in his arms than she has for years. More, certainly, than behind Skyhold’s impenetrable walls and her friends’ readily raised shields.

Out of its own volition, her arm reaches out for him. Thankfully there is no awkward fumbling trying to use her left, because even before he had taken her arm from her she had not wanted to bring the Anchor too close to the people she cared about.

Solas sees the motion even half turned away from her as he is. Of course he does. Little escapes his notice. But he does nothing to stop or encourage the movement. Instead, he stays where he is, although he turns back to face her and simply takes her in. Something flashes in his eyes when they trail over the place her left arm should be in. Her foolish heart interprets it as regret.

He takes his time to answer. When he does, it is nothing short of frustrating. “I want you to be safe.”

Her hand, still hovering in mid-air, falls listlessly back to her side. How naïve she was to believe the gaze and kisses from the trickster god himself.

“No,” she corrects him without inflection. “You want me to give up.” He does not blink, does not avert his eyes. Oh, how fervently she wishes he would just lie.

“I know you won’t.” Truly, he does. He has, after all, helped her out of the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes and Haven. He has taught her, shaped her like one would a clay puppet. Until his creation has started to think for herself and disagree with his plans.

“Then why are you here?” Lavellan knows why _she_ is. Why she had hurried across Thedas to follow an invitation she did not believe to be genuine until she had actually laid eyes on him. “Why act like you want to negotiate when neither of us will sway from our chosen path? You have set out to destroy my home and I won’t – I _cannot_ let you do this.” Desperation clings to her words. Absently she thinks, she is not above begging this man.

“You still don’t see reason,” he remarks quietly, sounding sorrowful.

“Reason?” Lavellan flinches when her voice comes out more like a shriek. “No sane person would.”

To her surprise, he chuckles at that. “This might be the root of the problem. I am hardly that.”

She beats down the urge to ask him what he means: that he is not sane or that he is not a person. _Neither_ would probably be the right answer. Even ignoring the fact that he is what they call a god, he also feels that the inhabitants of the world he helped create by mistake are not _real_ people. Naturally he would never compare himself to them.

“This world is wrong,” he continues, urgency in his tone, pleading her to understand. “And it is my fault. This is _my_ creation. I _need_ to make it right.” He certainly believes that with all his heart, hardened as it is.

In this moment, he does not look like a good, a commander of armies. No, there is something vulnerable to him, something deeply hurt. He is a child missing his home.

Lavellan goes to him, slowly, her eyes first on the window, the majestic garden beyond, unkempt now that most slaves have fled the palace. It is not possible, though, for her to keep her gaze from him for more than a couple seconds. For too long she has only seen him in dreams. The real him, in comparison, is blinding.

This time she does not hesitate to touch him. Her fingers are drawn to his sharp cheekbones as if she has only trailed them a day ago. When she finds his jaw clenched she frowns and he immediately relaxes. That makes her smile. Memories rise from the time he had eased her burdens. Before she knew of his own.

“Fen’Harel,” she calls him.

Solas recoils from her, staring at her mouth in utter disbelief that this particular name could have fallen from these particular lips. It takes him some long seconds to regain his composure and it is in this time that Lavellan learns more about him than in the years they worked together on taking down Corypheus. There is so much grief beneath his seemingly effortless layers of confidence. So much regret.

“Don’t –” he starts but she cuts him off by laying a finger on his lips.

They feel so soft against her skin that she wishes she could just kiss him again. But she cannot. Yet. It is not even that she wants to be cruel but there are things she needs to say.

“It’s not your fault,” she remarks, offhandedly. As if offering him forgiveness does not go against all the stories of her people. “The Elvhen caused their own downfall. You might have sped the process along, but it is not your doing that they started to wage war on each other.”

The mere thought of discussing this pains him, she can see that, can feel him pulling away from her. But she will not let him go.

“I cut them off the Fade,” he bites out, then swallows heavily. “I created the very thing that meant death for them all. How can you say this is not my fault when I alone sentenced my people to die?”

In truth, Lavellan does not have an answer to that, but she cannot let that show. If she did, she would have already lost. Not only the argument but the whole war on top of that.

“I know that something drastic had to be done or you wouldn’t have done it. You have told me so many stories about Elvhenan’s glory but –” A laugh breaks forth from her lips, sharp enough to cut. “In each of them was so much darkness too. Gods walking among their subjects. The slave markings. All of eternity to shape to their will.”

Here she steps away from him, immediately missing his warmth. “You make immortality sound like something wonderful, and unlimited access to magic as the only reason to breathe.”

Even from a distance his gaze weighs heavily on her. Nonetheless she raisee her eyes and meets it with renewed bravery. She can do that, as long as he is _listening_.

“But knowing that you will die, knowing that you will have to carve out your place in this world with all the strength you’ve got and some more still, that does not mean less than spending a whole millennium on one art to perfect it.”

As soon as the words are out she is left breathless. His gaze turns vacant while silence stretches between them. Inside her head – her heart – it all makes sense. Solas only needs someone to believe in him. Despite – and maybe because of – his past, the wolf lurking in his very soul. He needs someone to anchor him. Lavellan hopes that someone can be her.

“This is going to end,” Solas finally says, back straighter than before. “It has to.”

Lavellan feels her face fall as she realizes that she has failed. Nothing she can add now will change his mind. No matter what, he is set on destruction, on restoring a past she is terrified of.

“Do they know?” she asks and jerks away when he reaches out for her. “Your soldiers and freed slaves? Your _collateral damage_?”

She is not quite sure herself what she is asking. Do they know their leader thinks them damaged, spiritless things? That he calls their enemy his _heart_ still? That his mind is set more on destruction than on whatever salvation he has promised them? That in ancient Elvhenan they would not have been anything other than here: Slaves?

Solas likely knows the direction her thoughts have taken but he takes the easy way out and she is strangely glad for that. “That I am Fen’Harel?” Lavellan nods uneasily. “My commanding officers do, naturally.”

 _Natually,_ she scoffs inwardly. Out loud she asks, “Why?” Such a simple word compared to the whirlwind of emotions raging through her head.

Solas smiles tiredly, although it is more in expectation of her upcoming indignation rather than real amusement. “I needed them to follow me. The loyalty needed for war is not easily built on a lie.”

But love apparently is, Lavellan thinks. Or whatever name he uses for what they have had. “And they just accept it?”

“They are desperate and I am offering them a helping hand,” Solas admits in a rare show of honesty.

“And they only have to pay with their lives for that,” Lavellan mutters bitterly.

This time she does not step away when he retakes his place at her side. For too long she has missed his presence, making it impossible to push him away, even when she should. Even knowing now that they are still on opposite sides of this war.

“Ir abelas, ma vhenan,” he says and it does not make anything better that he means it.

Embracing her from behind, he pulls her back into his chest, inhaling deeply again before pressing light kisses to the bared side of her neck. Her skin starts to tingle immediately, sending heat into her lower abdomen. She cannot fault her body for his treacherous reaction, though, not when her mind yearns just as much for his touch.

With an expertly twist, she turns in his arms without breaking his hold. Then, cupping the back of his head with her one hand, she draws him in for a kiss. Wandering fingers find all the right spots and the air around them cackles with pent up energy. Their bodies fall easily back into melting against each other as if they had never stopped their intricate dance.

“Will this end, too?” Lavellan whispers when they break apart for air. Solas’ hand, which has been caressing the skin of her lower back, twitches almost apologetically in response.

When he speaks, fiery eyes bearing into hers, there is nothing doubting in his voice. “This can never end. I will not allow it.” Then quieter, barely a breath against her lips, “Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

This is the moment when she could give in, accept his love, his vows. This is when she could stop fighting. The gods now she is tired of it. The _gods_. Hah! A smile appears unbidden and it is not the happy kind but hope lights up in Solas’ eyes nonetheless.

“You know you can’t,” she says, voice gentler than the words warrant. The need to smother his hope arises in her, violent in its hunger. If her hopes are lost then so should be his. “I am going to die.”

“No,” Solas all but howls. Right there she can see the wolf in him and wonders how it has escaped her for so long. “You won’t, I promise. There is a way –”

She allows him to draw her in even closer for a moment but her body has become too rigid to fit in with his. Deliberately taking her time, she steals another kiss from him. Were it not so heart-breaking, she could laugh at his eagerness, his open devotion.

“You don’t understand,” Lavellan corrects, using his momentary confusion to extricate herself from his arms. Her skin burns in protest when it meets cold air instead of his warmth. “I don’t mean whatever comes after.” Maybe she should not treat his home so dismissively but she is barely keeping herself together as it is. “You helped them make me into the Inquisitor. You were there when they tasked me with saving the world.”

“But that was Corypheus,” Solas looks lost, one hand reaching out for her but she is careful to keep her distance. She cannot allow him to shatter her resolve with a touch.

“It is _my_ world,” she disagrees. “And I will fall for it if it comes to that.”

“Vhenan,” he says, then trails off, lost for words. Maybe his mind is as numb as hers.

“You say it will end soon.” Another smile, sharper than the last. “Don’t expect us to go down without a fight. Goodbye, Fen’Harel.”

With that she strides out of the room, knowing that she will not be able to if she lingers even a minute longer. Her whole body aches, feeling this loss she has just inflicted on herself.

Blackwall and Cullen stand guard at either side of the door, while Cassandra is pacing the length of the small antechamber. All three immediately snap into action when she emerges, not even bothering to hide that they are looking her over for injuries. If only they knew. But they cannot. Ever.

“Inquisitor-”

“Are you all-”

“What did he –”

They all talk over each other but Lavellan interrupts them with a sharp shake of her head. _Not now_ , she wants to say. _Not ever._ Instead, she straightens her back as she urges her feet to take her away from Solas as fast as possible. It is almost like she can still feel his gaze bearing into her even through wood and stone.

“The negotiations have failed,” she informs them briskly. Her tone is so final that she scares even herself with the apparent hopelessness of their situation. “We are leaving.”

Lavellan knows her companions share worried looks because she feels the weight of them settle onto her only moments later. But they say nothing as they fall in step beside her. Maybe they have silently agreed to let her grieve for the moment. Maybe they are simply at a loss for words. It does not matter. They are with her and they will not abandon her, even if she only leads them to the inevitable end.

But they are good at patching her up and making her grow beyond what she can imagine to do the impossible. So, maybe, with her friends at her side, not all is lost.

**Author's Note:**

> Vhenan = Heart  
> Ir abelas = I am sorry  
> Ar lath ma = I love you
> 
> The title is taken from Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah'. (If you haven't listened to Pentatonix' cover yet, do it!)
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
